Once Upon a November Eve
by Skye12
Summary: Young Frodo Gamgee is frightened by ghosts and lost in the woods on a cold night. Any fans of my work should love this one while I work on "Imprisoned" for now *No Slash* cute Gamgee-children-fluff


A/N This fic takes place during November Eve which would be some sort of equivalent to today's Halloween. Yes the Hobbits would have celebrated November Eve since Tolkien based their culture on the Celts who were the first to ever celebrate November Eve. Yeah I did my research heh. The common belief was that this was the night the spirits would return to the earth and seek closure that they did not get in life. Often they return vengeful and angry though some just return to visit loved ones. Still the spirits were greatly feared and the Celts would adorn masks to hide their identity fearing that the spirits recognize them would seek vengeance on them if they had wronged them in life. In this tale six of the Gamgee children are mentioned: Elanor is 12, Frodo is 10, Rose is 8, Merry is 6, Pippin is 4, and Goldilocks is 2. Enjoy!  
  
~~~  
  
"And tonight we light our candles and wear these masks to protect us from wandering spirits!"  
  
"Spirits?"  
  
"Yes! Silly brother, tonight is the night that they wander Middle-Earth." Elanor paused for effect content with the gaping jaws and wide eyes of her brothers and sister. In her mind she had done a right good job scaring them as the tiny hobbits clenched their little white candles in one hand and a little black mask in the other. Elanor herself had adorned her black mask and held the candle close making her eyes glow eerily. Frodo had been especially interested in the tale of November eve though now that he had heard it he did not quite like it.  
  
"That's not true!" shouted a very bold Merry who was sidling close to his little brother Pippin. Both hobbits were shaking violently from fear and cold.  
  
"I do not like these stories," murmured Rose who was desperately wishing she had stayed to prepare pies with Mama and Goldilocks.  
  
Elanor grinned smugly, "Oh it's all true. Just ask Papa."  
  
"Tell us one of his stories!" chirped Pippin.  
  
"No! Not tonight!" growled Elanor rather displeased that they were dismissing her tales. They were as true as she knew them to be. Papa did tell them to her. It was tradition. Every year they would have this festival. She was not appreciating her younger siblings' short attention spans. "Very well," she muttered. "You do what you wish but if I were you," she turned away and chuckled to herself. "I would not take off my mask. Then," she spun around and lifted her arms to make herself seem taller and more menacing. "They know who you are!"  
  
Rose squealed and ran back towards the smial as Pippin and Merry sobbed and dropped their candles. The tiny candles snuffed out immediately causing the hobbit children to become all the more distressed. Frodo could feel his little heart beating inside his chest and then remembered the mask in his hand. Quickly he fumbled it over his messy, sandy curls. He was the image of his father. He smiled proudly at his own bravery and held his candle high.  
  
"I fear nothing," he shouted bravely and his little brothers looked up. "For I am Frodo of Nine Fingers and nothing shall fell me!"  
  
Merry and Pippin perked up and smiled. "You always get to be Frodo," whined Merry.  
  
"It makes sense," said Frodo proudly, "I am after all the bravest. And Papa named me after him, he did."  
  
"You are not the bravest!" Merry puffed out his chest. "And you always use that excuse!"  
  
"I would like to be Samwise the Brave," whispered Pippin shyly.  
  
"Does that mean I have to be that Slinker?! That Stinker! Uh uh! No way, not again!" cried Merry awfully distraught at being stuck as Gollum. He so hated to crawl and call his brother "master".  
  
"No," said Frodo feeling bored. "I do not want to play. You can be Frodo, Merry. I suppose I'll go for a walk before the feast."  
  
"Mama does not want you to go far, Frodo," Merry called after him. "She says that she and Papa need help gettin' everything down to the Party Field."  
  
"I'm just going to do some thinking."  
  
"You're always thinking," replied Pippin but Frodo pretended not to hear as he ventured off towards the woods with his little white candle flickering in the night.  
  
It was a cold October night and Frodo had regretted insisting on leaving his jacket at home. The wind was cutting and tearing through the trees and grass like knives. It bit at Frodo's face and hissed in his tender little ears. He huddled tight and his candle flickered and snuffed out. Now he was cold and it was dark as night descended upon Hobbiton. The stars were not particularly bright that night and the moon was a silver sliver in the sky. The clouds passed over it, quickly, like thin grey rags fluttering in the darkling sky. The trees were nearly bare and the crooked branches swayed in the frigid cold. Frodo jumped every time he heard a voice mutter in the wind. His little heart was beating wildly. But he was ten now, and not a wee hobbit-lad like his brothers. He could be brave.  
  
There was a sound as the wind howled for a moment and then grew quiet giving the leaves a chance to mutter their cursing through the air. The voices that night were all but fair and calming. Frodo felt the hairs on his feet stand up and a shiver run down his spine.  
  
"Who's there!" cried his shrill, tiny voice. He spun around and fell on his round, little bottom with a thud. A slight sob escaped his lips. Alright maybe he wasn't as brave as he thought. The old, crinkly leaves seemed to giggle at his fear and the wind howled with laughter at his clumsiness. "Oh, where is my candle?" sobbed the little hobbit-lad groping along the ground. He did not feel the path under him. His little heart beat faster.  
  
Leaves. Just old, dry leaves, cold and brittle. That's all he could feel under his hands. He gripped them in tiny fists and whimpered. "How did I lose the path?" There was another burst of eerie laughter in the wind as it picked up again and he thought he felt cruel hands push him. He had been crawling until some wicked specter pushed him. He felt his trembling body crumble as he curled up on the road sobbing. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to disturb you Mr. Ghost, sir. I just want to go home."  
  
There was another burst of laughter as the leaves flew around him and tangled in his hair. The trees creaked and swayed, moaning with the harsh anger of the wind. "Please I just want to go home!" Frodo gathered his last shreds of courage and looked up, the wind made the tears on his cheeks almost freeze with cold and his mask itched terribly. But he could not take it off! Then they'd know who he was. He looked so very much like his father they'd know it was a Gamgee child, would they not? And then what? They'd go after his family! No he had to keep the mask on! He was trembling and leaves were caught in his hair and stuck to his cheeks. He was looking straight into a labyrinth of trees, thin and old, moaning and cracking. He saw pale lights flicker between them as spirits chased each other through the wood. There was an angry laughter that sounded far away and traveled upon the wind. The shadows danced and stretched like great black wings in front of the frightened hobbit-lad.  
  
"Papa!" he cried burying his face again. But he could not stay here. He could feel the cold lights getting closer, dancing around him. They laughed as he cried. He felt a sharp kick to his side and it was blunt but sent a cold pain through his whole body. The little hobbit did the only thing he could do. He rolled out of the evil circle of wicked phantasms and hit an old tree. "Oomph!" whimpered the little hobbit. He clambered to his feet and ran his hand across his teary eyes. His legs felt leaden and he heard the voices coming closer now with great speed. "Come, Frodo!" he spoke to himself like his father used to do. "Use your head. Get runnin' and don't stop! Just find the path!"  
  
He sped away from the pursuing spirits tearing through the brush and branches of the forest. It was thick and the bushes were cruel. Twigs and branches seemed to stick out into his path trying to block his way. He tore his sleeves and breeches, falling and skinning his knees terribly. With a moan the hobbit-lad gathered his strength and went on again. He brushed against a cruel branch and gashed his forearm. He could hear the ghosts catching up with him now, almost biting his heals like eager dogs. Their voices were cold and cruel, vengeful for whatever cruel deed did them in.  
  
He could have sworn he heard voices speaking to him. "Come little boy! Play our game! Play with us! Take off that mask! Come little hobbit!" Frodo held his mask but already cold claws were groping it. He felt as if he were struck blind for he could see nothing. Not even the tree that had cut him. He finally gave in and the mask was torn off of him.  
  
There was a great deal of laughter as the child's identity was finally revealed. He fell to his knees and whimpered. "Papa!" There would have been more teasing. There would have been more cruel words and tormenting but a voice ripped through the cold laughter of the spirits.  
  
"Away! Away with you! Leave the lad alone!" A torch was swung almost tearing through the darkness of the night. With a shrill shriek that was carried away on the wind the spirits departed. Frodo looked up and moved his trembling hands from his face. A figure in a grey cloak approached holding aloft a fiery torch. "Are you alright, Sam?"  
  
"Who?" stuttered the frightened child.  
  
The figure did not seem to hear. He bent down and took the lad's arm in his gentle hands. They were soft and warm and Frodo let the adult examine his cut. He could still feel the hairs on his feet standing on end. "Now, dear Sam, calm down please." The figure looked up and his face was visible in the warm light. It was fair and pale, dark curls, like shadows, falling in his bright eyes. They were keen and shining yet the color seemed to have drained from them long ago. They were still bright and Frodo-lad detected a faded blue in them. They seemed old but the face was young and the skin was flawless. The nimble hand felt along his arm and it seemed to have a warm glow come from it. Frodo-lad gasped. "Who are you, sir?"  
  
The bright eyes looked up at him briefly and they seemed to be full of a secret mirth. "Some call me Mr. Underhill. I haven't heard the name in a good long time. But I suppose now I have quite a many names."  
  
"I've heard that name before," cried Frodo. "It is in my father's book."  
  
"Is it?" said Mr. Underhill, his eyes twinkling. "Well it is quite common."  
  
"Why did you call me Sam, before?" said the lad, curiously.  
  
"You look like someone, I knew once. There well enough I suppose." Mr. Underhill let Frodo's arm drop. The lad looked over his arm and saw that the stranger had wrapped it in a fine, grey cloth. "It should do well." Mr. Underhill winked and helped the lad up. He dusted him off and steadied him.  
  
Mr. Underhill's touch was so gentle it seemed to wash away the chill in young Frodo's body. Now the lad had time to examine this cloaked figure. There was little to see. He was robed all in grey but it seemed odd, somehow shimmering like starlight. The lad's eyes widened. He could see the tree behind Mr. Underhill. He could see through him!  
  
"You're-" the little hobbit stuttered but could go on no more.  
  
Mr. Underhill smiled and laughed lightly. He bent down and whispered in the lad's ear, "Not all spirits are ill at rest." The voice was fair and soft brushing against the lad's ear and sending little pinpricks throughout his entire body, warming and chilling him at once. The hair on his feet tingled once more.  
  
So this, too, was a ghost. He felt unafraid in its presence. He looked up at Mr. Underhill in wonder. Frodo could not help but wonder who he was in life. "You say that you may have many names. Do you have a favorite?"  
  
Mr. Underhill laughed again, his eyes twinkling like stars. "Yes, I truly did have a favorite. But it is no longer mine. I cannot call it my own so I could not be called by it."  
  
"Someone stole your name?" the lad's round eyes widened at the thought that someone could steal a name.  
  
"No, not my name," laughed the spirit. "No one stole that from me, leastwise I can tell." He winked, "But I did give it away. I am truly honored to have done so for I have met the hobbit that now can call the name his own, and he is truly a good hobbit. Very brave."  
  
Frodo nodded slightly and shivered as the wind picked up. Mr. Underhill looked around, "They will not harm you." He held out a hand. "They are just vengeful for having life taken from them. I do pity them." The little hobbit took the shimmering, transparent hand. It felt warm yet ghostly to the touch. "I suppose you dropped this as well." Mr. Underhill held out a tiny white candle. Frodo grasped it in his little hand.  
  
"Thank you, sir." Mr. Underhill's eyes twinkled.  
  
"Come, lad." The spirit held the child's hand and they made their way out of the forest. It seemed very silent, peaceful as if the very air around Mr. Underhill were under a gentle spell. Frodo-lad felt warm and tingly inside and he could not take his eyes off of the specter that guided him. He was humming a soft song that murmured in the grass and breeze. It was so very fair and felt light as feather touches on Frodo's ears.  
  
still round the corner there may wait  
  
a new road or a secret gate;  
  
and though I oft have passed them by  
  
a day will come at last when I  
  
shall take the hidden paths that run  
  
west of the moon, east of the sun  
  
A! Elbereth Githoniel!  
  
silvren penna miriel  
  
o menel aglar elenath  
  
Githoniel, A! Elbereth!  
  
we still remember, we who dwell  
  
in this far land beneath the trees  
  
the starlight on the western seas  
  
"I've heard that song before, but it's different," said Frodo. Mr. Underhill chuckled. "Could you teach it to me?" said the child.  
  
"But of course," replied Mr. Underhill and he began again much slower.  
  
~~~  
  
The spirit led Frodo-lad out of the forest and now the path did not seem so far away. As they were approaching an opening in the trees they heard a voice echoing through the forest. This was not ghostly or cold. It was warm and earthy yet shaking with fear. "Frodo!" Both ghost and lad looked up quickly. They saw a warm light traveling up the hill and stop at the top. It was a lantern and though they could not see the bearer, both knew who it was. "Frodo-lad where are you!?"  
  
"That is my Papa!" cried the child excitedly. Mr. Underhill paused a smile curving on his lips of some distant memory that he kept to himself. The two stopped where the woods ended and they saw the worried father looking desperately from atop a small hillock. He held aloft a lantern and the warm light shed on his face and sandy curls. The child emerged from the woods and loosened his grasp on the ghostly hand. "Father!" He set the white candle down at Mr. Underhill's feet and ran forward. Mr. Underhill stood at the edge of the forest smiling as he watched the father and son reunite.  
  
"Frodo? Oh Frodo-lad!" Samwise Gamgee fell to his knees, setting down the lantern, and embracing his eldest son. "Oh my son! My dear son, I thought I'd lost you!" Frodo was stunned to see his father crying. "What happened my lad?" said Sam finally loosening his grip on his son.  
  
"I got lost, Papa. I got lost in the woods and chased by ghosts and then Mr. Underhill found me and wrapped my cut. He led me out and found my candle."  
  
Sam's expression of great joy faded into confusion. "Who, son?"  
  
"He's over there," the child pointed to where he had left his guide. Sam cocked his head to get a better view.  
  
All that was there was the little white candle, lit with a warm flame as it flickered in a slight breeze. "There's no one there, son." The child did not seem all that surprised. "Come, Frodo-lad, let's get home. Your mother is worried about you."  
  
"I know."  
  
Samwise lifted his child onto his shoulders and began the journey back home. The night seemed eerily still until an oddly warm breeze lifted and both hobbits felt the hair on their feet tingle. Sam heard a voice breathe warmly into his ear, "Farewell, dearest Sam." He spun around as quickly as he could and looked into the night. His son, once again, did not seem at all surprised. On the contrary he responded. "Goodbye, Mr. Underhill."  
  
Sam was struck dumb, his mouth hanging agape. Now the breeze ruffled with a gentle laughter and it seemed to put both hobbit's hearts at ease. Sam heard his son laughing and singing to himself.  
  
we still remember, we who dwell  
  
in this far land beneath the trees  
  
the starlight on the western seas 


End file.
